


cardinal virtues (and the lack thereof)

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Mayhem, Parenthood, Post-Promised Day, Siblings, Slice of Life, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: In which the Hawkeye-Mustang family visits the Elrics and there is chaos.





	1. Prudence

**Author's Note:**

> [bearonthecouch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch) challenged me to write some fluff a while ago. And I've had some headcannons for a while, so here we go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nick is a master of snark and annoyed at everyone in his family.

For as much as Roy Mustang’s name is said in the Elric house, it’s rare for him to actually visit. Even rarer for him to bring his family along.

The main problem is that Uncle Roy lives and works in Central City, which is as different from Risembool as Nicholas Elric can possibly imagine. It’s also very far away, which makes getting together as much an inconvenience as it is delightful. However, some military something-or-other has seen the Hawkeye-Mustang family temporarily stationed in East City, leaving them with enough time and closeness to swing around to the Elric house.

Right now, the parlor is the kind of lively that comes from having too many people in not enough space. Even with how relatively large the Elric family is—and it’s pretty large, at least by city standards—the crowd of company proves too much for the room. Currently, Mom is attempting to impress Aunt Riza with a schematic of some kind, one that has Aunt Riza bobbing her head politely because she isn’t a gearhead like Mom is but can appreciate the passion even if the mechanics of it go right over her head. The table is occupied by the thunderstorm that is Dad and Uncle Roy bickering, which is not altogether unusual. Judging by the books on the table and some vaguely-familiar jargon in their argument, Nick assumes that this is one of those intellectual debates between alchemists. He finds more interest in his book, though, because Bridget was always more interest in alchemy than him.

Their voices all crash together until the air itself is jangling. Nick hunches further over his book—a social science book that will probably make Dad weep, but social sciences are _interesting_ —in an attempt to drown them out.

It would be easier if it was just the adults making noise, but alas, there are young children present as well. Izzy is being fussy in the way that she has been for her entire life, which is, granted, a little under one year, and so she is being rocked by Aunt Riza in attempt to calm her down. Tina, four as of this January, is practically hanging off Mom’s skirt but goes unnoticed because the schematics are just _that_ exciting. On the floor, Michael, six-years-old, has sequestered himself on the floor with Leona—Uncle Roy’s daughter, who is just a year older than Michael himself—to show off his subpar drawing skills via thick parchment sheets and a box of new crayons. On the couch opposite the coffee table, Nick finds himself sandwiched between his ten-year-old sister Bridget and Maes, Leona’s twin brother, as Bridget attempts to prove her superiority in a contest of who can flick the most paper chips into their fathers’ hair. Surreptitiously, Nick notices that Maes is not particularly enthusiastic about the event and wonders to himself how badly his sister strong-armed the poor boy into this.

Overall, it is a cacophony. And that’s putting it _nicely_.

“Mommy,” cries Tina, all plaintive and sweet, the way only a toddler can pull off. Mom glances over her shoulder, finally noticing her second youngest clinging to her skirt. “When’s dinner?”

This has Mom blinking down at her daughter in bewilderment. As she rightly should, because it’s barely noon. “Not for several hours, sweetie. At the end of the day—same as usual.”

“But I’m _hungry_!” Tina protests, and tugs harder.

Mom rolls up her blueprints with a thoughtful frown and sets them down upon the bureau. “Well, I guess I could get started on lunch...”

“I’ll give you a hand,” offers Aunt Riza, because she’s nice like that.

Unfortunately, Tina’s face goes blissfully blank. “What’s lunch?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s lunch’?” Nick was about to ask the same question. because being four does not excuse one from being stupid. Mom, though, looks more amused than annoyed. “It’s the meal you have in the middle of the day!”

And from the way Tina goes “ohhhh”, you’d think this was a new invention of some kind.

Toddlers, the epitome of annoyance.

More chips flick through the air, and Nick follows them silently with his eyes, both annoyed at the distraction and distractedly curious as to how neither adult has noticed. They certainly are engaged in a rather impassioned argument, that’s for certain. He’s only ever seen Dad argue like that with fellow academics, but Uncle Roy is a politician, so it’s odd.

Bridget manages to successfully lodge another paper chip in Dad’s bangs, but he doesn’t even notice, hunched over his own notes with an intensity in his eyes. That same intensity has kept him from noticing the peppering of similar paper chips that has grown to nearly consumed his golden hair. There must be literal hundreds. “Okay, I know how it sounds, Mustang, but _listen—_ ”

“It sounds like a _catastrophe_ , Elric.” He knows their “friendship” is kind of weird, but Nick still fails to understand how Dad can endure Uncle Roy staring at him so condescendingly. “You realize I employed your talents for the _express_ _purpose_ of fixing—”

“You’re asking me and Al to rewrite _the entirety of Amestrian alchemy_.” Nick doesn’t know exactly what that means, because again, alchemy is more Bridget’s thing—but that sounds like a particularly arduous task. “If you were expecting us to be done in a couple weeks, then could you _please_ stop being such a _stupid bastard_ and shut up for _one—_ ”

“There are children present, Edward.”

Ironically enough, Maes chooses that moment to flick a paper chip of his own. It lands in Uncle Roy’s ear but he doesn’t notice.

The next paper chip that lands in Dad’s hair must mark at least two hundred. “I _repeat—_ ”

Why were these two allowed to procreate again? Not that Nick isn’t grateful for his existence or anything, but he kind of expected Mom and Aunt Riza to have higher standards.

On the ground, the din is no quieter. While Leona has up until then been content to watch Michael doodle, she seems to grow board of the spectator role and snatches up a lilac-colored crayon for herself. Michael lets out a strangled noise of protest, but she hardly seems to hear him.

From the way she turns it over, you’d think she’s never seen a crayon before. “Can I keep this crayon?”

Michael sits up sharply, looking grievously offended. “No way! Get your own!”

“But I want _this_ one!” Leona protests. “I even named it!”

“You can’t name a crayon!”

It occurs to Nick that social scientists would  _marvel_  at the dynamics of his family. Or perhaps the dynamics of his family interacting with others, specifically the Hawkeye-Mustangs. Perhaps he could right a paper on it, publish it, become famous for the utter insanity of his family.

He would still very much like to actually get around to _reading_ , thanks.

“Sure I can!” Leona tilts her chin up in a haughty manner that Nick has seen Uncle Roy do from time to time. “Her name is Emily and she’s my friend and I’m keeping her, so _there_.”

Again. Social scientists would _marvel_.

“That name is stupid,” declares Michael.

“Your _hair_ is stupid!”

“Excuse you!” Bridget snaps, suddenly whirling around in her seat. Her braided ponytail comes back around to slap her face, and the two younger children tense up instinctively, as does Maes despite Nick sitting between them. “My braids are _awesome_!”

Yes. _So_ awesome, in her opinion, that everyone in the Elric household had their hair braided by Bridget this morning. Dad’s usual ponytail has been replaced with a thick rope not unlike the one he has in old photos (with an ugly red coat, how was that _ever_ fashionable), which matches the one dripping down Michael’s back. Tina’s hair has been done in an artsy waterfall braid that runs through her flaxen locks. Even Mom has deigned to let Bridget weave smaller braids out of her buttery yellow hair and allowed Izzy’s pigtails to be plaited, albeit a little sloppily because baby’s hair isn’t really made for such complicated configurations.

The only exception to this is Nick, who has managed to escape his sister’s deft fingers with his dignity. This fact does not escape Leona’s notice.

Huffing petulantly, she jabs Emily the Crayon in his direction. “ _Nick’s_ not wearing a braid.”

Bridget sniffs, feigning offense, as Maes manages to land another paper chip in Uncle Roy’s hair. “That’s ‘cause Brother’s a jerk who decided to cut his hair short.”

 _You left me no choice!_  And besides, Nick _likes_ his hair short anyway. His bangs don’t get in his face and it’s less of a hassle to brush. He has no idea how people with long hair manage, even without the indignity of being his sister’s favorite model.

Back over in the corner, Aunt Riza’s attempt at calming Izzy by bouncing her is yielding no results. “She’s awful fussy.”

Momentarily distracted from untangling Tina from her skirt, Mom looks up. “I know. Even Nick wasn’t this bad, and that’s _saying_ something.”

For the record, Nick resents that. But is also certain that he’s read the same paragraph three times now, so that may also be the cause of his irritation.

“Moooommy, I’m huuuungry,” comes Tina’s exaggerated whine.

“Okay, sweetie, just give me a sec.”

“But I’m hungry _now_!”

Maddening. Absolutely maddening. Why did his parents decide to have a grand total of five children again? Nick would have been perfectly content as an only child.

Well, okay, _Bridget_ is decent—and probably the best of the lot. His other younger siblings are too young for him to connect with properly, but she’s only a year younger than him and they’ve been with one another longer than either of them can remember. She shares his voracious love of reading, even if she has a preference for alchemy and scribbling things in chalk that he only sort of understands, but she makes good company when she isn’t being a brat.

Such as challenging a seven-year-old to a paper-flicking competition. Bridget Elric, master of petty competition.

Ironically enough, not long after Nick thinks that, Uncle Roy turns his head minutely. The result is that the paper chip Maes flicked ends up in his eye. His shout of surprise mixes with Maes’s squeak of terror and the little boy ducks under the table in fear. Leona always teases her brother for being mousy—and, well, she’s not entirely wrong.

This calls Dad’s attention to the thick peppering of white in Uncle Roy’s hair, and he attempt to smother his snort into his palm. Still, the edges of his cheeks crinkle in a manner that suggests a wicked smile. “Hey Mustang, looks like you’re goin’ white early.”

Uncle Roy pauses rubbing his wounded eye to appraise Dad, and then arches a brow. “So, it seems, are you.”

“Hah?” Bewildered, Dad touches his bangs, which dislodges a few paper chips. He frowns pensively, and then shakes his head the way a dog might. The ensuing avalanche is something like snowfall in northern Briggs. “Wha— Bridget!”

Bridget only grins with far too much pride in her mischief. She peers down under the table, presumably at where Maes is cowering, and her smile grows a touch vicious. “I win!”

Amazing. Bridget is only a year younger than Nick and yet she is _such_ a brat.

“Win what?” Dad demands, annoyed.

To this, Bridget straightens, and her smile grows sweeter, more apologetic. She’s always been able to charm Dad in a way that Nick has never managed to—some strange phenomenon between fathers and daughters. “It was an experiment, Dad. We were just sharpening our scientific curiosity!”

Unfortunately, she is not Uncle Roy’s daughter, and so he is not swayed. “Experiment.”

“We wanted to test the parameters of your concentration on a subject versus how many paper chips we could get in before you noticed.” Then, either oblivious of the consequences or too drunk on victory to pay them mind, she adds, “I honestly thought you’d have noticed sooner.”

Dad and Uncle Roy pull identical faces of exasperation. Another marvel—why the hate each other so much when they are _so_ alike.

“She really is your daughter,” Uncle Roy deadpans.

“Shut up,” is eloquent Dad’s retort. To Bridget, he says, “You can’t have a proper experiment if you have two dependent variables.”

“That isn’t really the _issue_ , Elric.”

“Shut up. I’m _parenting_.”

Tentatively, from underneath the table, “Am I gonna have to give up my dessert now?”

Again, victory alights Bridget’s face. “Yup! ‘Cause I _won_!”

And now Dad eyes her with weary exasperation. It’s the same look he gives Nick when Nick asked why he couldn’t just sit in his room all weekend and read. Like not wanting to play outside is a _bad_ thing! “Bridget,” he begins with the utmost patience, “you can’t take Maes’s dessert.”

She looks stricken by this. “But Dad! I _crushed_ him.”

“ _Your_ daughter.”

“You, shut up,” Dad says to Uncle Roy. To Bridget, he says, “Sweetie, how would you feel if someone took your dessert from you?”

A stubborn frown crosses her face, and yeah, Nick has seen that same look on Dad’s face before, so. “But I’m not _taking_ it. I _won_ it off him.”

“...no, Bridget.”

“But you said Elrics never back down!” Bridget protests.

Which isn’t untrue, because Dad and Uncle Al _have_ both said that in the past... usually as a _joke_ , but, still.

While this is going on, Uncle Roy evidently decides to do some parenting himself, and reaches under the table to scoop his young son out. Maes has decided that he is now very afraid of Bridget—which is actually fairly wise, on his part—so he clings to his father’s jacket. Uncle Roy offers Maes a comforting pat on the head. “You’ll get to keep your dessert, Maes.”

Frustration crosses Bridget’s face. Having your spoils of war rescinded is never pleasant, even less so when you are as competitive as Bridget is. “If you don’t respect a bet, what’s the whole point of making one?”

“To be _nice_ ,” Dad replies, sounding impressively mature. Not that Dad isn’t mature when he wants to be.

Bridget eyes Dad for a few moments with a look that questions his overall sanity. “Nuts to _that_. I want more ice cream!”

Dad looks to the ceiling in exasperation. Nick just wants to enjoy his _book_. What’s wrong with that?

Even worse is the fact that the conversation, or at least part of the conversation, has been picked up by Leona. And as any big sister would—even if the age difference is a matter of hours—she leaps to her brother’s defense. Literally. “Don’t worry Maes! I’ll fight for your dessert!”

Michael scowls. “You can’t beat up Sister!”

“Sure I can!” Leona strikes a heroic pose, Emily the Crayon thrust out in front of her as though she were a knight brandishing her trusty sword against a horrid dragon. “I’ll defend my little brother from bullies!”

This has Bridget’s jaw dropping and then she is on her feet—it’s almost comical, because compared to her, Leona is actually quite tiny. Maybe the knight-facing-a-dragon metaphor has some weight to it. “I’m no bully! I won fair and square, dammit!”

“Bridget! Language!” Mom barks. The power of Cuss Words has drawn her into the fray.

“Dad gets to cuss!”

“ _Ed_!”

Dad is too busy massaging his temples to flinch the way he usually does. “Bridget, _no swearing_.”

“...Roy.” Shifting Izzy’s burden in her arms, Aunt Riza makes an awkward gesture with her free arm towards her shortly sheared hair. “It would appear that you have something in your hair.”

Blinking, Uncle Roy brushes at his hair a little, and the paper chips that had up until that point remained are dislodged. Grimacing in annoyance, he proceeds to then scrub at his hair in attempt to be rid of them all. All the while, Maes peers up from his father’s lap with a look that can only be described as apologetic.

 _There exists two main classifications of social groups_ , reads one passage that Nick struggles to focus on despite all the cacophony in the background. The narrow black font is nearly impossible to focus on.  _Secondary groups are impersonal attachments formed by minimal interaction. The parties involved know very little about each other and are therefor have little sense of loyalty. They receive almost no gratification from these relationships. An example of this might be an acquaintance whose name you know, someone you speak to in passing but do not know very well. Primary groups are those that are deeply and intimately attached to one another. Bound together by intense ties of loyalty and kinship, these relationships are defined by the deep satisfaction that individuals are brought. Primary groups offer belonging, security, and acceptance. However, they also place certain expectations upon those involved, and as a result, conflict emerges from clashing viewpoints._

As Izzy starts to cry and the bedlam only grows more chaotic, Nick exhales through his nose. _What I wouldn’t give to be in a secondary group right about now._

At some point, Dad has started to snicker as Uncle Roy rids himself of paper chips. “Do you want me to get you a brush, Mustang? Or some anti-dandruff shampoo?”

Brushing off the last few paper chips, Uncle Roy narrows his eyes. “Very mature, Elric. You still have some in your hair, too.”

“Wha— Dammit, Bridget!”

“ED!” Mom shouts.

Tina latches onto Mom’s skirt again. “Mommy, I’m _hungry_.”

 _I am in a normal family that is not loud and obnoxious and interrupts my reading._   _A normal family._ Primary groups. Secondary groups. The theory was first coined by—

And then, of course, Izzy starts to fuss again. Aunt Riza hurriedly attempts to calm her. Maes whimpers and buries himself into Uncle Roy’s shirt.

 _Seriously, is there a **gene** or something that makes certain people louder than others?_ Turn the page. Studies on social conformity, the evolution and emergence of social norms—

Leona thrusts her pretend-sword out in the _en garde_ position. “For the honor of the Mustang name!”

Deciding that the threat to Bridget is real enough to warrant action, Michael leaps to his feet with a glare and waving fists. “No one beats up _my_ big sister!”

He then proceeds to tackle Leona, who screams loudly but does not hesitate to fight back. They tumble across the floor in a flurry of hair-tugging and shouting, a few cuss-words thrown around that they could only have learned from adults. Dad rises to his feet to get involved but Bridget beats him to it, diving into the fray herself.

“Guys! Knock it  _off_!” She attempts to pry them apart, but Leona wiggles free and then leaps back on Michael, using Emily the Crayon as a bludgeoning weapon. Michael roars his fury. “Michael! I’ll just beat her up myse—”

She is cut off abruptly when Michael’s fist grazes her jaw. The sound of the impact wasn’t audible, so it couldn’t have been that hard, but she still draws back with a yelp.

“Michael!” Mom shouts.

Bridget presses a hand to her bruising jaw. “Dammit, little brother, you’re only supposed to punch people if they _deserve_ it!”

An errant child’s shoe comes flying through the air and strikes Nick in directly in the left temple. He isn’t even sure _why_ there are shoes flying around in the _first place_ —but _that’s it_.

He slams his book down on the table— _hard_. “WILL EVERYBODY JUST  _SHUT UP_!”

Abruptly, a hush falls over everyone. Michael and Leona pause their tussling, Leona with her crayon jabbed up Michael’s nose and Michael with a firm grip around one of her raven-black pigtails. Maes dares to peer up with wide eyes while Uncle Roy and Dad both blink at Nick. From behind Mom’s legs, Tina looks more bewildered than afraid, while Mom and Aunt Riza are simultaneously startled. Bridget stares like she forgot Nick was even there. Even Izzy falls quiet beyond a little sniffle.

“ _Thank_ you.” Nick goes back to reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone can keep track.
> 
> The Rockbell-Elric kids:  
> Nicholas "Nick" Elric, eldest. Eleven.  
> Bridget Elric, second-eldest. Ten.  
> Michael Elric, middle child. Six.  
> Kristina "Tina" Elric, second-youngest. Four.  
> Isabelle "Izzy" Elric, youngest. One.
> 
> The Hawkeye-Mustang kids:  
> Leona Hawkeye-Mustang, elder twin. Seven.  
> Maes Hawkeye-Mustang, younger twin. Seven.


	2. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leona is baffled by country towns and the people in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note about the chapter title: In stoic philosophy, there are four main virtues. The second of them is "justice", but it more accurately refers to moral uprightness and integrity.

Visits from the Elrics are not entirely rare.

Uncle Ed is an alchemy professor who often attends something called a “symposium” where people sit around, talking about alchemy—as opposed to Dad’s meetings, where a bunch of politicians sit around talking about politics. Anyway, when Uncle Ed visits, he’ll usually bring Nick or Bridget along, sometimes Aunt Winry too. Other times Aunt Winry will come to Central herself on account of a customer who can’t make the trip, and sometimes she’ll bring Michael along. Frankly, Leona Hawkeye-Mustang doesn’t really like Michael all that much, because he’s loud and whiny and doesn’t share anything. Like, Nick pretends to barely tolerate everybody when he can be really nice if he wants to, while Bridget is loud and devious but she also does Leona’s hair for her and even mousy Maes seems taken with her. Tina and Izzy are both little sweethearts. But Michael’s just _annoying_.

...where was she? Oh yeah.

Whenever Uncle Ed or Aunt Winry visits, they always talk about Risembool. Leona has never been to the country before, but her friends at prep school all have ranches or cottages or family property out in the country, and they all say it’s really pretty in the summer. Risembool has always been described to Leona as idyllic, beautiful green pastures with an endless sky, sleepy like a lullaby murmured over a goodnight bedtime story, the kind of calm and quiet that’s good for living in. So when she was told that for once, her family would be visiting the Elrics, she was super excited.

Only to be utterly disappointed to find that Risembool is a muddy, disgusting place that smells strongly of sheep.

Actually, the sheep are the most disappointing part. All her picture books show them to be flurry and soft and smiling, but in real life they’re dumb, smelly things that bleat right in her face.

 **_So_ ** _not cute!_

“I wanna see a lamb,” she complains to her tour guide. The one she’s been saddled with because Mom wants them to _get along_.

Like she wants to _get along_ with Michael Elric. _Blech_.

He looks at her like she’s actually dumb, and she _so_ is not. She’s at the top of her class! “It’s only autumn. Lambs aren’t born until spring.”

Okay. There’s nothing to be gained out of this trip. Leona would like to go home, please and thank you. Home is where all her dollies are.

Rolling his eyes, Michael grabs her by the wrist—so grabby! it must be a hick thing, because none of the boys at her school would be so rough with her—and starts dragging her away from the paddock. Not that she’s going to complain, per se. The air may be cleaner out here, but with that comes the ability to better smell the mud and manure and the _animals_. At least in Central the smell of petrol is something she’s used to.

“C’mon,” he says, leading her towards the town proper. She can see municipality buildings rising up on the horizon and marvels at how dispersed everything is. “Mom says we hafta pick up some cloth from Maeve’s shop.”

Leona doesn’t remember anything about that. Maybe Aunt Winry just said that so he wouldn’t pitch a fit. Michael’s a real brat, see, and he objects to things quite loudly. Leona only objects to things when they’re unfair.

As they walk, he finally lets go of her hand—good, she doesn’t want people think he’s her boyfriend or something, gross. When she gets a boyfriend, he’s going to be handsome like Dad, all charming smiles and easy laughter. Michael’s _nothing_ like that.

Michael’s got an angry sort of face like Uncle Ed, even if a lot of his face is more like Aunt Winry, though Aunt Winry can get mad too. Unlike his other siblings, Michael has blue eyes rather than the exotic gold of his brother and sisters, with the sole except of Bridget and her somehow green eyes. But he has the same long golden hair as Uncle Ed, which has Leona wondering why Uncle Ed wears his hair long. He’s the only boy, Michael aside, who she’s seen that wears his hair long like a girl’s. Nick wore his hair longer for a while, too, Leona remembers vaguely, but he decided to cut it all short last year.

At least it proves that there are barbers out in the country. Leona was actually beginning to wonder for a while.

The town proper of Risembool is actually kind of nice. Not bustling busy like Central is, with honking cars and carriages trotting down the streets and busy crosswalks, but there are still lots of people here. Michael calls it a “marketplace” as he gestures vaguely towards the cute little shops and some stalls filled with produce. Leona is used to shopping at grocery stores, indoors where things are clean and the tiles are white, so it amazes her that people actually deign to come outside, trotting along this dumb dirt road with bags slung over their shoulders. There isn’t even any cement or asphalt! Country people must have to wash their shoes all the time!

Speaking of which... Leona looks down to see that her new patent leather shoes are all dusty. _Aw man!_

“You owe me new shoes,” she informs Michael bluntly. He glances over his shoulder at her like she’s crazy.

Well, whatever. They arrive at a nice-looking shop with glass windows that display white models dressed in pretty clothes. Kind of like the ones in Central--the models, not the clothes. The clothes are pretty but Leona can’t see herself or anyone she knows wearing them. Not her style.

There’s a sonorous rattling noise as Michael pushes the door open. It’s different than the usual high-pitched chirp Leona is used to when Mom takes her and Maes shopping. When Leona looks up, she immediately sees the reason why—instead of a shiny silver bell, a dull brass cowbell is hooked up above the door. A _cowbell_.

_...country people are **weird**!_

“Good afternoon, Michael,” says the lady at the front desk, somehow knowing Michael. Leona briefly considers that he might be a regular, but quickly dismisses it the next moment. He doesn’t seem well-behaved enough to hang out in a clothing shop regularly. “Oh, and who’s your little friend?”

Though his back is to her, Leona notices that Michael’s shoulders hunch a little in annoyance. “That’s just Leona.”

That’s her cue. “Hi!” she says brightly, smiling nice and charming the way Dad always does when he meets someone new. Everybody says that she looks just like him—same dark eyes, dark hair, charming smile. People like her charming smile and she likes that other people like her charming smile. “I’m Leona. My dad knows Michael’s dad and we’re in town visiting. It’s my first time in Risembool and it all looks super pretty!”

This has Michael staring at her openly. And yeah, okay, she’s been complaining since they left the house—but the nice lady doesn’t need to _know_ that. It’s all about _appearances_.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” the lady replies, grinning. Charming smile strikes again. “And Michael’s showing you around, is he?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s a being a real gentleman about it, too!” Leona takes no shortage of delight in the sight of Michael’s jaw falling open. Doesn’t he know that being nice to others makes them like you? Dad calls it “diplomacy” or something.

Just as she says that, the cowbell at the front door rings again, and she turns to see three giggling young women enter. One of them is blonde, her curly ringlets bound up tightly, while her companions are both dark-haired. What really catches Leona’s attention about the blonde lady, though, is the sparkling diamond on the golden hoop of her ring—it glitters like condensed stardust.

The shopkeeper lady notices it, too, and her face lights up. “Oh, Emma, don’t tell me! He proposed, didn’t he?”

“He did!” The blonde lady, apparently named Emma, giggles in a sharp, chiming manner as she glides over to the counter, displaying her ringed hand with some sort of pride. “Isn’t it just _gorgeous_?”

Leona has no idea what’s going on and turns to Michael in askance, but he looks more pleased than confused.

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you! Say, Maeve, I was hoping—would you be willing to design my wedding dress?”

Wait, wedding dress?

 _Oh! She’s getting **married**!_ Leona feels a little dumb for not realizing it sooner, but in her defense, she’s never seen anyone actually proposed to, and most of the married woman she knows slip off their rings around Dad, then give charming smiles of their own. And it’s not like Mom wears a ring, either...

“It would be my pleasure!” cries the shopkeeper, looking ridiculously close to tears. Country people are _so_ weird.

One of Emma’s friends notices them, then, and a sort of sly grin splits her face. “Well, hello there Michael! Say, who’s your little friend?”

“I’m Leona,” she says, and sticks her hand out. She attends military functions sometimes, so she’s used to shaking hands with lots of people. This time she only has to shake three of them and they all smile at her in that same sly manner, not unlike how the girls at her smile when they cluster together when sharing gossip.

“Emma,” replies the blonde lady. “That’s Lily and Ann.” The dark-haired women wave demurely, and Leona smiles back pleasantly. “So what brings you into town, Leona?”

“Visit,” Leona starts to say, but Michael interrupts with a loud, “We’re picking up cloth for the drapes.”

Um. Rude. Right when she’s in the middle of—what did Dad call it? “Greasing palms”? Leona isn’t entirely sure why people would want to put grease on their palms, or why they need other people to do it for them, but they sure do like it.

“Oh, that’s right!” The shopkeeper puts a hand on her head like she suddenly remembered she had one. Country people. “It’s in the back—hold on.” And then she disappears from the counter, retreating somewhere behind a curtain, presumably to where her wares are stored.

Once again, the gaggle of young women occupies Leona’s attention, particularly that bright, shining diamond set in Emma’s right. It’s like a hunk of starlight, all glittering and exquisite, and she is suddenly very jealous that Emma gets to wear it around so proudly. Other girls at Leona’s school have jewelry, bought just for them if not handed down by their parents, and Leona has often begged Mom for something similar—a broach or earrings or even a string of pearls that she could show off to her classmates, but she was rejected every time.

Emma notices her staring and flashes a pretty smile. “My boyfriend proposed just last night. Isn’t it nice?”

Leona nods eagerly, because again, she doesn’t have anything that nice. Would it be wrong if Leona tries to charm it off the woman? It sounds like it should be, but she’s _so_ tempted... “He’s a real lucky fellow, miss, to marry someone as pretty as you!”

“You’re such a _sweetie_ ,” coos Emma. Dad says no woman can resist being called pretty (except for Mom, though, who looks both flattered and exasperated). She places a hand on her cheek and appraises Leona, but also Michael. That sly smile returns. “And you two look awful good together, too.”

Michael blinks dumbly. “Huh?”

Boys. So very slow.

Seeing an opportunity to further taunt him—which is absolutely delightful—Leona grins nice and wide, hooking one arm around Michael’s. “He’s the _best_ boyfriend ever!”

“WHAT?!”

“He even offered to show me around town! Isn’t that soooo sweet?”

By the time he jerks away, it’s already too late. The women titter appreciatively, which has Michael turning a frustrated shade of red that makes his blue eyes burn.

A vicious giggle leaves Leona. “You’re so _mean_ , Mickey,” she coos.

“ _Don’t_ call me ‘Mikey’!” he all but spits and hey, a new thing to annoy him with. “You— you— _evil witch_!”

She pouts, feigning hurt. The ladies giggle again, something about boys pulling pigtails. Which doesn’t quite make sense, because Michael’s only pulled her pigtails the one time and she’s pulled at his braid dozens more, but adults are generally strange.

Before she can humiliate him any more, the shopkeeper lady comes back with a folded square of patterned fabric—cheery flowers, bright sunny yellow and blushing pink blossoms against a cream background—in her hands. She sets it down on the counter. “Here you go.”

With some intrigue, Leona watches as Michael digs around his pocket for a bit and then pulls out a wad of bills. She’s only ever seen adults pay for things—even her friends from school always bring a parent along, tugging at their sleeve for expensive things. But the way Michael reaches up, arching on the balls of his feet, to slide the bills onto the counter and then slide the cloth square over to him, strikes her as oddly mature. And he’s a year _younger_ than her.

“Let’s go,” he snaps at her as he storms off to the door.

So rude! So very ungentlemanly! Leona sniffs as she trails after him.

“Good luck,” Emma croons as they’re off. Something in Leona twinges, suddenly regretting her teasing—because really, her and _Michael_! eugh!—but she swallows it to smile prettily with a wave.

Her and Michael!

...well, he’s not _ugly_ , per se, now that Leona considers it. Just really, really annoying. If he were less annoying—maybe.

“Hurry up,” he snaps again. He’s charging ahead in front of her, the fold of cloth tucked under the crook of his elbow.

But he’s staying slow. Slow enough for her not to be left behind. If he’s really mad at her, why not just storm off in a huff? That’s usually what you do when you’re mad—get as far away from the problem as possible.

And yet, he remains slow and steady enough for her to follow. How strange.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His shoulders hunch. “Yes, I’m mad! You’re a _jerk_!” A beat, and his shoulders relax again. Curious. “...but Mom said to stay with you all time, so, just—try not get lost.”

Huh. None of the boys at school would be so gallant. Was that the right word—gallant? It didn’t sound right, not fitting with Michael at all. And even then, his actions are kind of spiteful... but still. Strangely considerate? Who knows how boys think. Especially boys a whole year younger.

...but still.

“Oh. Well, thanks.” She pauses for a moment, pursing her lips. “Hey Michael?”

“ _What_.”

“...sorry if I embarrassed you.”

That makes him come to a grinding halt. He turns around at that, bewildered, but that quickly transitions into a distrustful look. As though she deserves to be looked at that way, with how charming she’s been. “...why?”

What, does he mean, “why”? “I’m _apologizing_.”

The glare intensifies. “ _Why_.”

Ugh. Boys. Why can’t they all be easy to control like Maes the Mouse? She’s gonna have to be blunt about this. Make a grand gesture. “I wanna make it up to you. Close your eyes.”

“ _No_.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?” And then pouts for added effect, because not even Mom can resist her pout. She’s just that adorable.

There’s a heavy snort from him, reeking with disbelief. But after a moment, he complies, his face still drawn into an ungentlemanly scowl. She tries to stifle her smile as she creeps closer to him, closer, closer, closer, until they’re face to face. He’s shorter than her by just a bit, she notices as she leans in close—

—and gives him a little peck on the lips.

Really brief. Nothing too romantic. His eyes fly open and he turns a delicious shade of bright red, different from before, deeper, until he’s kind of like an overripe tomato. It’s actually kind of cute, in the right light. Little half-formed words stutter out of his mouth like he forgot how to speak.

So she speaks instead. Charming smile, Leona. Remember the smile. “That’s a thank you for showing me around.”

His mouth quivers the way mousy Maes’s does when he's scared and she hopes he’s not expecting her to do it again, because he’s a loud, annoying brat and this is _a one time exception_ , you hear—

The next thing she knows, the square of cloth is being thrown in her face and when she removes it in bafflement, she sees that he’s already halfway down the street, taking off down the street while spitting vile things out while he sprints like it’s his job. She blinks, realizing quickly that she’ll be abandoned if she doesn’t act soon.

Scrambling into action, she chases after him, clutching the fabric square. “Hey! _Michael_! Come _back_ , you jerk!”

“ _Stay away from me_!”

Country people are _so weird_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's Leona and Michael. Here is where the Unreliable Narrator tag really kicks in.


	3. Temperence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bridget attempts to corrupt Maes's soul with alchemy.

Bridget is familiar enough with the Hawkeye-Mustang family at this point.

For one thing, she knows that Aunt Riza is a scary good shot with a gun—not that Bridget is permitted on a shooting range, but you pick up rumors when you visit Central every now and again—and that Uncle Roy is a lieutenant-general currently up for election as Fuhrer of Amestris. She knows that even if Aunt Riza and Uncle Roy love each other, politics keep marriage off the table, and it forces the twins to hide their true parentage, even if a lot of people suspect it already. Personally, Bridget thinks the whole thing is bullshit, even going so far as to tell Uncle Roy that right to his smarmy face once.

“Did your father tell you to say that?” he asked her then.

“No,” she retorted, and had been annoyed by it. Just because she’s apparently similar to Dad—a fact _everyone_ loves to remind her of, by the way—doesn’t mean she isn’t her own person. “I just think you’re bein’ stupid.”

To which Uncle Roy just sighed exasperatedly, and she decided then that he could be kind of a bastard sometimes.

It’s kind of ironic for Uncle Roy in particular to think of Bridget as her father’s daughter that when Leona so obviously takes after him, both in appearance and in the way she smirks at people like she knows their every secret. Maes, on the other hand, has the same reddish brown eyes as Aunt Riza and is his sister’s polar opposite in personality—Bridget once read a story when she was little, about a lion that gets stuck in a net and has to be freed by a mouse, and she thought to herself that described the twins to a tee. If Leona is a lion, too proud to admit her own weakness, then Maes is the little mouse that stays quietly in the background most of the time.

But Bridget likes that about Maes, actually. In her family, the quietest one is Brother and he is the incarnation of snark, so even his presence can grow intolerable to some degree after a while. Maes doesn’t talk back, doesn’t argue or sass her, and there’s a genuine sweetness about him if you can coax a smile.

Which is exactly the plan she has when she grabs his hand, presses a finger to her lips, and they sneak up the stairs together.

She and Brother share a room, as they have since they were babies, and he’s there now when she opens the door. That dumb sociology book is rested against the fold of his knees as he leans against the headboard—he deigns to look up as she makes her way over to their shared bookcase.

“Please tell me you’re not forcing Maes into anything dangerous,” drawls Brother.

Ignoring him, Bridget scans the shelves—once, twice, three times. But no amount of rereading the titles makes the book she’s looking for magically appear. “Hey, what happened to the copy of Oswald Croll’s _Basilica Chymica_?”

“The one you stole from the study?” Okay, that is unfair, because Brother started stealing books from the study first. That’s how they even got into alchemy in the first place. “Dad found it and made me put it back because he said it was too advanced.”

Pfft. That’s a laugh. From what Uncle Al said, he and Dad were messing around with alchemy around the same age that she and Brother were, so Dad trying to impose limits upon them borders on hypocritical. Besides, limits are for normal people. She and Brother are geniuses.

After stealing a glance over her shoulder to confirm that Maes hasn’t left—he’s peering in from the doorway, too cautious to stick his dark-haired head in but observing with those wide, curious auburn eyes of his—she turns back to Brother. “Where in the study?”

To this, Brother heaves a colossal sigh, stabbing a bookmark between the pages of his dumb social sciences book and then setting it aside as he sits up. “Okay, are you planning to blow something up? Because if so, I’m gonna have to get involved.”

“Not necessarily,” Bridget chimes, trying to look sweet. That always works with Dad—not so much with Mom, though, and less so with Brother. “You could go back to reading and have deniability.”

“I’m your older brother and therefor responsible for you.” There’s an underlying note of **_Someone_** _in this family has to be responsible_. Which is really selling their family short, which is one of the many reasons people call Nick a little shit.

“ _Or_.” She reaches into her pocket and whips out her library card, flashing a nice, wide smile as she approaches. Brother says her smile is devious on principle, but he reads sociology books, so what does he know. “You could take my card—which is empty because I returned _all_ my books last week—and check out ten new books to read.”

A silent, rapid-fire debate flashes through Brother’s topaz eyes. Triumph curls through her as ultimately snatches the little plastic card from her hand.

“I was not part of this,” he says as he leaps off the bed. He pauses briefly at the doorway, turning to Maes and muttering, “Good luck, kid.”

Whatever. Bridget loves Nick, but he’s kind of an asshole. Maes looks terrified, now.

“Ignore him. He’s a jackass.” She goes over and scoops Maes’s wrist up, tugging him down the hall to the study. “C’mon! I’m gonna show you something cool.”

Minutes later, she’s hunted down _Basilica Chymica_ , has cleared a large space on the study floor, and is using the tome as a reference for the massive transmutation circle she traces on the wooden floor with a chalk stick. Maes is knelt down next to her, mesmerized by the lines of chalk she scrawls across the hardwood but hesitant to ask about it. But that’s fine—some questions don’t need to be asked.

“Brother is the one who first found the alchemy books,” she explains as she traces a massive fire triangle, overlapping it across the earthen triangle. “Dad never really uses the study,” but rather works at the dining room table, something she finds to be impractical due to it being in the heart of their home and therefor the chaos, but it also means he’s always there when they need him, “so it’s more of a personal library than anything else. Anyway, Brother was bored with picture books and wanted to read grown-up books, so he just snuck in and just _took_ one! Dad never even noticed!

“I found out and threatened to tell Dad if he didn’t share them with me, so he did. And for months we read those books, not really knowing what they were, just that they were interesting.”

Well, _interesting_ is downplaying it a bit. Brother was mildly intrigued, but Bridget _devoured_ those books, spending long nights by candlelight pouring over the pages and pages of long, dry text that somehow captured her imagination.

“Then Dad got a teaching job at the local university and started holding classes. Between his and Mom’s work schedules, plus the fact that Michael was still a baby, sometimes we’d have to sit in his lectures after school.” She was still young when that began, barely five, and walking up the long, winding road to the campus on the hill was the most vivid memory she has of that year. How idyllic those days had been, her hair bound up in pigtails and a spring in her step as she followed after Brother, who somehow had the skill to walk straight despite having his nose in a book. “The first time we went, we actually took those books with us—after I started listening to Dad lecture, I realized what we were reading was actually the textbook for a university-level class!”

This makes Maes’s brows rise to his hairline in surprise. She giggles a little at the sight of it as she sits back on her haunches to admire her work. It brings her a deep, thrilling satisfaction to determine that the final product matches the diagram in the book. Perhaps she’s even improved upon it, with her own meticulous attention to the details of the matrix.

“Yeah, I _know_. The _funniest_ part was when Dad asked the class the question and _no one could answer_. I was so pissed off! Like, it was _right there in a book_ , and _common sense_ at that!” Bridget rises to her feet and drifts over to the closet, where Dad stores various distilled elements for transmutations and experiments. Bottles and vials and volumetric flasks organized upon a row of shelves—thankfully, she’s grown over the summer, allowing her to reach the desired ingredients if she strains her reach hard enough. “So I eventually just stood up and told them the answer. And they all _stared_ at me, like they just remembered I existed. I was _so_ embarrassed. And as if that wasn’t enough, Brother tried to defend me by saying, ‘You idiots need to read the damn book. ‘Cause Bridget’s only _five_ and she can literally quote passages.’, and I was absolutely _mortified_.”

Though her back is turned, she can feel the strange look she gives him. “When I was younger, I got randomly shy,” she explains as her hand tightens around the neck of a flask and pulls it down.

As she turns, she finds that incredulity has lit his features. Not that she can blame him. No one today would dare call her “shy”. No, _Maes_ is shy—Bridget is bright and bursting like a magnesium combustion.

Laughing, she drifts back over to the circle, setting down her ingredients in careful order so she won’t mix any up. Measurements are key in alchemy, as with any other science. “Anyway, after class was over, I kind of expected Dad to be upset or embarrassed because we interrupted.” She turns to the lowest drawer of the nearby bureau, where containers are stored. The rim of the small metal washbasin is hard to grip, just because of its smoothness coupled with the awkward angle, but she manages nonetheless. “But... he was happy. And really proud.”

And she will never, _ever_ forget the look on his face, the way his eyes lit and the wide, shining smile he gave her, as bright as the sun splitting open. He looked at her like she had offered him the entire world on a platter, scooped up the stars and the moon and presented it to him in her cupped hands. The sight of it warmed her to the bone in a way she couldn’t quite describe, lit a fire in her belly, something that was either passion or addiction or both, because that look of joy was something she desperately wanted to recreate.

“He’s been teaching us alchemy since then,” Bridget finishes proudly. Maes peers up at her curiously as she settles back down next to him, carefully setting the washbasin down so she can mix the elements. “Brother’s learning too, but he’s not as invested as I am, which kind of sucks ‘cause he doesn’t know what he’s missing. But overall—I mean, alchemy is _amazing_. Like, it’s the _whole world at your fingertips and shit_! It just sucks that Dad tends to hold back on the hardcore stuff because we’re too young or whatever.”

“My dad said that too,” Maes mumbles as she unscrews the cap of a jar and starts pouring sulfur powder in the container. “He, um, made something once—”

“Transmuted,” Bridget corrects robotically, only to feel like a bitch when he wilts. “Uh, sorry, continue.”

There is a hesitation from Maes, and he looks down at his hands, starts fidgeting with his fingers—which maybe means she’s pushing too hard, whoops. But he starts up again after she adds aluminum and copper scraps from the jar.  “...a-anyway, Sister asked if he could teach us, and he said ‘maybe when you’re older’, and um...” He pauses to look back at the circle, brows furrowing and brown eyes flickering with a surprising lack of recognition. “He... never used one of these, though.”

Bridget’s hand jerks and she almost ends up adding too much water, because her brain function briefly stalls before starting back up again. “Wait—what do you mean?”

Bewildered, Maes glances up at her briefly, sees something on her face that makes his eyes widen, and then ducks his head again. He points a shaky index finger at the chalk rim. “H-He, um, didn’t use one of these circle thingies. He just kind of...”

Very slowly, she sets the bottle of water down.

“Did he do this?” And for demonstration, she _claps_ —palm against palm, fingers aligned and pointed heavenward. It looks like someone praying.

“Uh.” He blinks at her. “Yeah...? H-How—”

“Uncle Al can do that.” Unbelievable. “I asked him to teach me how and he just _laughed_ at me, said it wasn’t something you could teach.” Which was really rude! But the worst part was that Dad _agreed_ with him about it, too, which was annoying as hell. “ _But—_ Granny Izumi can do it too, and Dad and Uncle Al always call her ‘Teacher’! And now Uncle Roy—” A bolt of stifled fury crackles through her like an electric current. Her grip tightens around the rim of the washbasin to stave off the sudden urge to kick and scream and potentially break something. “Oh my _god_. It’s a whole _goddamn conspiracy_.”

“C-Conspiracy?” Maes’s eyes have gone wide and round the way a cornered animal’s might.

“Yeah! They’re all in on and it they won’t tell me— _ohmygod_.” The weight of realization crashing down on her leaves her dizzy. “I bet _Dad_ can do it _too_! He doesn’t transmute anything but that might just be because he doesn’t want me _asking_ about it ‘cause he doesn’t think I can _handle_ it—well, _I’ll show him_!”

With a grunt, she heaves the washbasin into her arms and hefts it to the center of the circle. Each step is taken with great care, lest she accidentally smudge a chalk line or spill something over it, which would then ruin the entire transmutation. Alchemy is as finicky as it is breathtaking and true beauty, after all, takes lots of effort.

“I’m gonna be the best damn alchemist _in the whole fucking world_ ”—she sets the washbasin down with a huff—“and then he’s gonna _have_ to teach me!”

Resolve lights a vicious burning in her belly as she marches back over to the rim. Maes has scooted back a bit, eyeing her warily, and this fact does not escape her notice, but she pays it no mind in favor of the determination that has seized her wholly.

“Just you watch, Maes Mustang.” Hands on circle, palms flat, fingers spread, passion pounding through her blood. Alchemy is like a second heartbeat. “You’re about to witness the next great mind of this generation at work!”

And without further ado, the circle blazes with cerulean light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. So, funny story. I started writing this like ten days ago, but then kind of never finished? Until now? My bad. I'm a little ashamed because I honestly love Bridget and she's lowkey my favorite of the fankids I've headcanoned.
> 
> Name origins!  
> Nick--from Nicholas Flamel.  
> Bridget--from the Celtic goddess Brigid. Means "power, strength, vigor, virtue" or "exalted one".  
> Michael--from Michael Sendivogius, a Polish alchemist and physician.  
> Tina--from Queen Christina of Sweden, who also studied alchemy and sought out the "ruby red powder of the philosophers".  
> Izzy--from Isabella Cortese, an Italian alchemist.  
> Leona--originally, I planned to name her Penelope, but I came up with a headcannon where Roy calls her his "little lion" on account of her plucky nature, and the name Leona just seemed to fit her so well.  
> Maes--well, I think this one is fairly obvious.
> 
> Fun fact: Basilica Chymica by Oswald Croll is a real-life alchemy text, and Oswald Croll a real-life alchemist.


	4. Fortitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which future generations would forgive them if they never brought their children together again.

To someone has seen firsthand how contentious Edward Elric was in his youth, it is strange now to see him fall into the pattern of domesticity.

Not that it’s _bad_ , per se, Riza muses. Just _strange_ —that the boy that traipsed around Eastern Command in that trashy coat, radiating arrogance and rebellion, is now the man washing dishes at the kitchen sink while cradling his infant daughter in one arm.

“You really didn’t have to help,” he insists as she passes him another dish. “I’ve done the dishes plenty of times on my own, y’know.”

“With one hand?”

She means it as a joke, but he looks at her very seriously as he replies, “Obviously.”

The somber effect is ruined significantly by the fact that Izzy is absentmindedly chewing on the end of his braid, but Riza makes the executive decision not to comment on this.

“I see.” She turns back to the sink. “Well, still. Consider it thanks for the delightful lunch.”

“Hey, you’re always welcome. The kids love you and Winry loves you and it’s an overall pleasure.” Edward’s face sours briefly as he clumsily towels a plate dry. “Your _boyfriend_ , on the other hand...”

As if on cue, the back door opens, signalling that Roy and Winry are returning from the garden, where Tina dragged them outside to show off something-or-other that had her deeply excited. However, it’s said four-year-old that comes bounding in first, her dress caked in brown wetness and her yellow-gold locks laden with the same substance, her topaz eyes bright with childlike wonder despite her state of uncleanliness.

“Daddy, Daddy!” She leaves a trail of dark footprints in her wake as she bounds up to her father, quickly attaching herself to his leg. Riza winces at the muddy imprint the little girl leaves on Edward’s pantleg.

As Winry and Roy quickly make their way to the kitchen, Edward gapes down at his second-youngest. “What _happened_?”

“Your daughter decided to open a bakery,” explains Roy flatly. “Of mud pies.”

“Uncle Roy wouldn’t eat any of my pies!” Tina cries with a huffy pout.

“ _What_?” Edward sends Roy an exaggeratedly scandalized look. “Mustang! Why didn’t you have any of Tina’s _delicious_ baking?”

“Your one-year-old is chewing your hair,” Roy deadpans in retaliation.

Without looking, Edward tugs his braid free from Izzy’s mouth, much to her discontent, and then throws it over his other shoulder and out of her reach. Riza takes this to mean that this is an ongoing issue, or at least one he is familiar enough with. The Elrics seem to her very put-together in their parenting, and perhaps that comes from the fact that you quickly grow used to young children after having five of them.

Speaking of young children. Tina’s lip is quivering and Edward bends down to pat her head lightly with his free hand, mindful of the muck. “Ignore him, sweetheart. He’s just grouchy ‘cause he’s old.”

“Old,” repeats Roy a bit peevishly. And, well, it isn’t as though the last decade hasn’t aged them both—not in a bad way. He has a bit of silver around his temples that suits him surprisingly nicely.

“See? He’s even losing his hearing!” While Roy grinds his teeth, Edward grins down at his daughter in a manner too wide to be reassuring. Why men are so immature, Riza will never know, but if not for the children and his wedding band, she would have never guessed that Edward was an adult. “He _always_ been old, see. He was old when I met him.”

“ _Really_.” Oh dear. Riza knows that tone—the frostiness that preludes either a shouting match or a sense of triumph on Roy’s part. “Tell me, Elric, aren’t you turning thirty this year?”

Straightening, Edward frowns. “Wh—”

“Because that’s _older_ than I was when we met, so _keep that in mind_.”

Whatever retort Edward had prepared dies. His mouth hangs open for a minute, then closes. He blinks. Blinks again. Places his hand on his temples with a growing look of abject horror.

Riza gently extricates Izzy from her father’s arm before he drops her, which, judging from his face, seems to be a very real possibility. “Why would you do that?”

Even Winry casts a scolding look at Riza’s partner. “Yeah. I don’t come to your house and break _your_ husband.”

Roy looks far too proud of an accomplishment as childish as this. “My apologies, Winry, but he was asking for it.”

Izzy shifts in Riza’s arms and babbles something in toddler-speak that sounds an awful lot like “old”. Edward whines pitifully.

Tina detaches herself from her father’s leg—he doesn’t even seem to notice, caught in his own personal epiphany—and drifts over to Roy with a glitter of curiosity in her eyes. “How many is thirty?”

All too eagerly, Roy bends down and displays all his fingers. “It’s _three_ of this many.”

Her golden eyes grow round. “That’s a _lot_.”

Ah, so both daughters have sided against their father. How merciless.

“ _Hold_ on!” Edward regains enough of his wits to point furiously at Roy, and wow, fifteen years and nothing has changed. “ _You_ don’t get to do that, Mustang. You’re _forty-four_!”

“Thirty’s more,” Tina chirps brightly.

“ _No it’s not_!” Edward screeches.

Thankfully, the conversation never goes any farther. The front door opens—quietly, so quietly that Riza wouldn’t have noticed if the movement transpiring in her peripheral didn’t tug at her battle instincts. Nicholas’s golden head briefly pokes in, then he slowly slides himself through the opening and carefully closes the door behind him. He hastily tiptoes over to the stairs in an effort to avoid being noticed.

Unfortunately for him, Winry follows Riza’s gaze and notices her son just as he reaches the staircase.

“Nick?” The eldest Elric child freezes on the first step, mouthing a silent curse that would surely earn him a scolding if it were vocalized. Winry’s brows furrow. “I thought you were in your room.”

The wide-eyed way he returns her suspicious stare is so reminiscent of his father’s teenage self that it strikes Riza how he might follow in the Fullmetal Alchemist’s footsteps. Oh dear god. She wonders if Roy will be a handle a world with two Edward Elrics in it.

“Oh! I was just...” His frazzled expression melts into a confused frown as his gaze drifts to his younger sister. “Why’s Tina covered in mud?”

For a fraction of a moment, Winry glances back at her four-year-old, but her gaze quickly snaps back to her eldest when he makes a move to climb the steps again. “Don’t change the subject. Where were you?”

“Library.” Given that he has a backpack slung over his shoulder, half-zipped around a bulge of thick volumes, this seems plausible enough.

But Edward joins his wife in frowning dubiously. “Your card’s maxed out.”

Also plausible, seeing as Nick is such a voracious reader.

He shifts his weight in such a way that makes Riza feel like time has rewound almost two decades. “Bridget let me use hers.”

This explanation only has Winry’s brows furrowing deeper. “Why would she let you do that?”

For a moment, Nick seems to struggle for a response—

“MOOOOM!”

—and is saved when his younger brother comes bursting through the door with a wild look of horror in his eyes. Michael promptly barrels into his mother’s legs, burying his face in her skirt and trembling.

Huffing, Leona appears in the doorway like the Grim Reaper arriving to collect what is rightfully hers. A square of cream-colored cloth with floral patterns is tucked into her crook of her arm, while her eyes are narrowed in a peevishly displeased manner and her mouth is curved into a huffy pout.

“You’re such a baby!” she announces prissily, closing the door behind her. As she approaches, Michael immediately ducks behind Winry’s legs, giving Riza’s eldest a particularly distrustful scowl. Leona scowls for a moment, then smothers it behind a pleasant smile as she turns to Winry and presents the cloth in her hands as a cat might present a dead mouse. “Oh, here’s your cloth Auntie.”

Bewildered, Winry accepts the proffered square. As she unfolds it, Riza realizes that the fabric has a few smudges of dirt on it, along with what distinctly appears to be a footprint. “Er. Thank you?”

When Leona takes a step towards Michael, the boy inches back defensively, one fist gripped firmly on his mother’s skirt. The Elric couple exchange a meaningful look with one another, the way couples do, to convey a silent message meant for them only. While this is going on, Riza makes the executive decision to set Izzy down—who then takes the opportunity to crawl towards her mud-covered older sister—in order to settle on her knees next to her daughter. And yes, Riza can see a few scrapes on Leona’s knee where there weren’t before. The two got into yet another fight.

Unbelievable. Is there any way to have these two get along?

Whatever wordless conversation transpired between Edward and Winry, they seem to have reached a decision. Edward breaks eye contact in favor of Tina, who is still smearing mud across his pants by her mere presence, and takes her wrist in one hand. “C’mon, sweetie, let’s go get you cleaned up.” She lets out a noise of complaint, but ultimately goes along as Edward walks off to the back room, presumably where there’s a washbasin that can be used. Without looking over his shoulder, he adds, “And Nick, don’t go _anywhere_.”

Nick, who reached halfway up the staircase without their noticing, grumbles in irritable defeat. Riza has to admit being a little impressed—she thought she was the only one who knew her kids well enough to pull of the “eyes on the back of my head” routine.

Meanwhile, Izzy instead starts crawling over to the trail of muddy footprints that Tina left. Roy takes initiative in scooping her up before she can dirty herself. Winry folds the cloth back up and sets it on the nearby counter.

Once that is done, she turns to address her son. “Okay Michael, what’s going on?”

There’s a moment of hesitation, Michael scowling at Leona the way you might a venomous snake, before he looks up at his mother and declares, “I don’t wanna marry Leona!”

What.

Riza isn’t the only one confused by this, because Winry blinks down at him in befuddlement. “Why would you be marrying Leona?”

He jabs an accusing finger in her direction. “‘Cause she _kissed_ me.”

“ _What_ ,” Roy demands.

...to be clear, when Riza said “get along”, she did not mean like _that_.

“Leona, dear.” Leona turns to her, blinking innocently, and Riza sets her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Why would you do that?”

The little girl tips her head back in a manner that is certainly reminiscent of her father. “Well... I was kinda making fun of him, and I wanted to apologize.”

Apologize, she says. “And you thought it would be a good idea to _kiss_ him?”

“You and Dad always kiss when you apologize,” Leona replies.

“That’s.” Certainly true, but. “Different.”

“ _Very_ different,” adds Roy emphatically, his grip tightening unconsciously around the child in his arms. Izzy lets out a noise of complaint.

“Michael, sweetie.” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Michael chances a look up. “You don’t have to marry a girl because she kissed you.”

“Yeah,” Leona adds matter-of-factly. “Otherwise I’d be married to twelve other boys.” She pauses long enough for Riza’s jaw to fall open. “Thirteen, countin’ you.”

Roy looks ready to pass out or light something on fire or both as he chokes, “ _Thirteen—_ "

“So... I _don’t_ gotta have kids with her?” Michael demands, his panic starting to fade a little.

Winry opens her mouth to answer with something undoubtedly reassuring, but Roy interrupts with an emphatic, “No. Absolutely not. No—marrying or kids or—or kissing boys until you’re _twenty-one_.”

God, the _look_ on his face. Riza has always heard that some men are particularly protective of their daughters—she remembers Gracia Hughes recounting one story involving Elysia’s fourth birthday party and having to stop her husband from cocking a gun, even just for show—but it never occurred to her that Roy might be that type. She wonders if she should be worried.

Actually, yes, worrying would be smart, considering this is Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, and he is a thousand times deadlier than Maes Hughes ever was. God help them when Leona is old enough to date.

Actually, god help them when Leona becomes a teenager, if this is how she behaves at age seven.

Leona’s mouth falls open in shock. “But Dad—”

“ _No_ ,” Roy repeats firmly, and that is the end of that.

A few beats of silence pass in which no one says anything. Maybe because of the absurdity of the realization that Riza’s seven-year-old has somehow become a serial kisser. Or maybe because the possibility, however remote, of marriage joining their two families has dawned on them—and wouldn’t that be mildly terrifying, Edward and Roy bound to each other by the matrimony of their children.

As though the very thought has summoned him, Edward pokes his head around the corner in a cautious manner, the way a mouse emerging from its hole might check for the lingering cat. “Who died.”

His wife blinks at him, alarmed. “What?”

Still cautious, he steps fully around the corner. “I heard shouting and then quiet. I repeat: who died.”

“We’re talking about possible scenarios in which Michael and Leona end up married,” replies Nick with a sarcastic cheer.

Horror drains the color from Edward’s face. “Oh _hell_ no. I’m not suffering _Mustang_ as my _in-law_.”

“Likewise,” Roy drawls, having sufficiently calmed. His brow is still twitching, though, so even the idea of Leona getting married is enough to inspire protective urges. Riza will need to watch that in the future. Sigh. “Do you have any idea how my career would suffer if I was father-in-law to one of your brood?”

At this point, Riza fully expects Edward to retort with something infuriated, and they will then devolve into the childish banter that makes one question their overall maturity.

To her surprise, though, it’s Winry’s brow that twitches. “I’m sorry—‘brood’?”

Oh. That’s right. Winry mentioned that a customer recently commented on the number of their children, called her and Edward “irresponsible”. Apparently it left her very upset.

Oh dear.

If it were anyone else, Riza would probably insert herself between her partner and the offended party. But because it is Winry (who only raises her wrench against her husband when he disregards the delicacy of his automail) and Roy is holding Izzy (which automatically improves his chances of survival tenfold), Riza gets to her feet to guide Leona a few paces back. Edward, seeming to mirror her thoughts, does the same with Michael. Both children exchange a bewildered but excited look with one another.

In fact, Roy seems to realize he’s gone too far, and blinks once. “...ah. I meant—”

“No, I know what you meant.” Winry’s tone is acidly sweet, matching with the too-wide smile that spreads across her face—it belies the infuriated twitch in her brow. “And I get that five kids is a _lot_ , but let me just point something out here—even with both Ed and I working full time, none of our daughters go around _kissing strangers_.” Riza opens her mouth to say something, and Winry belatedly seems to realize what she’s said, because she hastily tacks on, “No offense, Riza.”

Well, actually, Riza is a bit offended, but Winry does have a _point_... Perhaps she’s been too lax.

Of course, because interruptions seem to be a running theme, no one gets to say anything else. A loud boom ripples through the house, makes the foundation shudder in anticipation and the air ripple. Riza freezes, thinking back to Ishval and to gunshots and bombings even though that was _several decades ago—_

Edward stares forlornly at the ceiling, where spiderweb cracks spread across the plaster. “...tell me that wasn’t Bridget.”

“On the bright side,” Nick says, already edging his way up the stairs, “you can finally get new wallpaper for the study.”

His father whirls around. “ _Nicholas Van_ —”

“Bad news is that Maes is with her,” blurts the boy before he bolts.

“— _Elric_ , get your _butt_ back here!”

But horror is surging within Riza too fiercely to pay attention to anything. “ _Maes_ is with her?!”

Edward seems not have heard her, already charging up the stairs with a soldier’s urgency. Without thinking, Riza is racing after him—because that is her _son_ and there was an _explosion_ and _oh good god._

By the time she arrives, Edward has already torn the study door open. Black smoke belches out from the doorway in a steady column—the smell is that of harsh chemicals and burning things, grating horribly against Riza’s nose. Behind her, Roy gags, having foisted Izzy off on her mother to follow at Riza’s heels.

 _Inside_ the study is no better. Blackening scorch-marks dance across the walls in an unholy ring, not unlike a faceless mask of cowl-wearing ghouls. The furniture has not made it out entirely unscathed, a few errant streaks of pitch marring wood, while an entire book-case has been knocked on its side. Whatever happened radiated outward like a great star of oblivion, or perhaps a gaping black hole, from a single spot on the floor—which just so happens to be a smoldering, half-melted ruin of metal.

Ducking their next to an eclectic collection of flasks and jars, Bridget and Maes reluctantly raise their heads. There is soot in Bridget’s hair, smearing all over her dumbstruck face and her clothes. It’s probably the same for Maes, but his shaggy dark hair keeps it hidden.

Regardless, maternal instinct has Riza shoving past the two men to reach her son’s side. “What _happened_?”

At first, there is no answer. Riza quickly checks Maes for bruises or cuts or burns, any evidence of harm—he does not resist her efforts, gaping openly at the warped metal with wide eyes.

Bridget, too, is gaping, but for a very different reason. Where Maes looks awed, she is dismayed and bewildered, unable to process the sight of it. Helplessly, she extends a green-eyed stare to the various bottles and jars at her side, then back to the warped tin. The jars, the tin, repeat. Tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling, an uncomprehending furrow in her brow.

Finally, her eyes alight with realization. She holds out her palm and drops her fist into it like a judge’s gavel. “...I forgot to add the _silica_.”

“Bridget!” Edward snaps. At some point, he’s crossed the distance, and has acquired a thick, scientific-looking volume in his hand for some reason.

There are very few things capable of making Bridget wince, but Edward waving the book in her face seems to be one of them. “It would have gone perfectly otherwise,” she protests feebly.

Roy settles at Riza’s side, an urgent look in his eye. She gives her head a little shake, assuring him that no, she has not been able to find any evidence of physical harm. Almost ten years’ worth of stress falls off him in that moment.

Still, Riza can’t help but scoop Maes up onto her lap. “Maes, sweetie, are you alright?”

Eyes still very wide and trained upon the warped construction, Maes whispers, “Bridget used alchemy to make the tub explode.”

“ _No_ ,” Bridget corrects as Edward’s shoulders stiffen. “I set off a _chemical reaction_.”

“That _exploded_ ,” Maes says.

A shaky smile of triumph flashes across Roy’s face, which he of course feels the need to aim at Edward. “What was your wife saying about my daughter?”

“You, shut up,” Edward retorts without looking. To Bridget, he waves the book in her face and says, “I _told_ you this was too advanced.”

Just like her brother, Bridget’s gaze flickers around when cornered, as though she can latch upon some detail to save her at the last minute. “Y-Yeah, well...” Apparently something occurs to her, because she leaps to her feet in order to point furiously at her father. “You and Uncle Roy are running a _conspiracy_!”

Roy pulls a bewildered face. Riza doubts Edward’s expression is any different. “...what.”

“ _And_ Uncle Al,” Bridget goes on stridently, “ _and_ Granny Izumi—you can _all_ do circle-less alchemy and you won’t _teach_ me and it’s _not fair_!”

Though his back is to her, Riza is fairly certain Edward is massaging the bridge of his nose.

Meanwhile, Maes seems to have regained his wits and turns to address his father, probably because Roy is also an alchemist. “Does alchemy always make things blow up?”

“No,” replies Roy reassuringly, and tucks a dark lock behind Maes’s ear. “It usually _makes_ things.”

A thoughtful frown emerges on Maes’s face. “...but it _can_ , right?”

Riza is not entirely sure where this is going, but trying to hide it after what just transpired seems pointless. “If you’re not careful.”

Maes seems to consider this for a moment. Then, eyes alight in a manner that Riza has never seen before, he turns to Roy and asks, “Can you teach me?”

She must have heard that wrong. Surely.

But Roy blinks and manages a “huh?”, so apparently he also heard it.

“To make things blow up with alchemy?” That light in Maes’s eyes intensifies and it is then that Riza realizes, with a strange mixture of pride and horror, that it’s _excitement_. “It was _so cool—_ and it was all glowing and flashing and boom and pop like _fireworks_!”

That is—probably the most Maes has ever spoken without stuttering or pausing.

And it’s about alchemy.

 _Exploding_ alchemy.

Naturally, this brings forth the most complicated feelings of amazement, pride, and apprehension, because Riza has also seen that look before. _Remembers_ that look. She sends an urgent glance in Roy’s direction, trying to figure out how to feel about this—he’s the alchemist after all.

But Roy only gapes openly as though he’s just seeing Maes for the first time, perhaps just as unable to comprehend this sudden surge of intense fascination.

Something like defeated hysteria surges through Riza. _And here I thought **Leona** was going to be the problematic one._

Edward, apparently having caught a snippet of the conversation, has turned to eye Maes with unadulterated trepidation. “...Mustang, your son is gonna be a goddamn pyromaniac.”

“May I remind you that Bridget destroyed your study,” is Roy’s peevish retort.

“I didn’t _destroy_ it.” Bridget’s assertiveness wanes when something on the wall falls off, landing against the floor with a crack loud enough to make her wince. Only then does she survey the room and seem to realize the extent of the damage. “Just... _blackened_ it.”

Edward whirls around to glare sternly at his daughter.

“...we can still _clean_ it,” Bridget protests weakly.

“You mean _you_ can clean it.” While Bridget balks, Edward storms over to the doorway and calls out into the hall, “And your brother can _help_ you and learn the value of _not accepting bribes_!”

Not a moment after Edward has turned away does Nick suddenly materialize, poking his head around the doorway with eyes brightened by the light of fury sparked a deep injustice. “That’s not _fair_! I was at the library the whole time. How is this _my_ fault?”

With an utter lack of sympathy, Edward plants his hands on his hips and replies, “Son, take up a dictionary, look up ‘willful blindness’, and then get back to me.”

Nick groans with exaggerated misery.

“There are cleaning supplies in the closet,” Edward directs. When his children exchange miserably looks with one another, he adds, “And don’t even _think_ about using alchemy, or you’ll be _grounded_ for a week.”

“But Dad,” Bridget starts.

“Get to it.”

Grumbling peevishly, Bridget marches past her father and joins her brother disappearing down the hallway in search of cleaning supplies.

“This is all your fault,” Nick’s voice grumbles.

“I just forgot one ingredient, okay?” comes Bridget’s indignant retort. “ _One_.”

“What happened to ‘alchemy is all about attention to _details_ , Brother’?”

“Shut _up_.”

If their sibling squabbling continues, Riza doesn’t hear any more of it. The distance turns in into an indistinguishable murmur.

Entirely unfazed by what has just transpired, Maes looks up at her with wide eyes that mirror her own. “When can I learn to make things explode?”

Edward unsubtly coughs “ _pyromaniac_ ” into his fist and Roy glares and Riza buries her face in her palms to keep from groaning at the injustice of everything.

* * *

After the soot has been scrubbed off Maes’s face, he scampers back up the stairs in what Riza assumes will be an effort to pester the elder Elric children about alchemy and all it has to offer. She watches from the kitchen sink, drying her hands as he vanishes beyond her sight. Just moments earlier, Tina and Izzy were both put down for an afternoon nap, something desperately needed after such an exciting and exhausting day. With them sleeping, Bridget and Nick occupied with cleaning up the study, and Maes up the stairs, the dining room has been left as something of an adult space.

Roy and Edward are both sitting at the table with Winry, jointly explaining Bridget’s latest stint and how her brother has joined her in punishment. Though seeming unsurprised by anything that they are telling her, Winry massages her temples in exasperation, looking weary to the bone. That, Riza understands—something about becoming a parent ages you in ways you’d never realize.

“ _Mi_ chael!” Leona shouts just a moment before Michael’s golden-braided head blurs past. Her own raven-haired blur appears a moment later. “I just wanna _apologize_!”

“ _I know what that means, you witch_!” screeches Michael, and then he is racing up the stairs. Leona shouts something in protest as she gives chase.

 _Thunk_. Riza looks to see that Edward has his face pressed flat against the wooden tabletop, hands buried in his hair. Roy has half-risen out of his seat, his expression warring with the urge to intervene and the appropriateness of said action.

“I’m beginning to think,” begins Winry, peering up at the staircase where both children vanished, “that humanity would forgive us if we kept our children far, far, _far_ away from each other.”

This earns a dry little laugh from Roy as he sits back down. “You feel it too?”

“It would be a necessary sacrifice,” Riza remarks, setting the tea towel back in place.

Edward’s low groan of agreement is muffled by the tabletop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes that! Thanks so much everyone who read and commented and left kudos and just overall putting up with my gratuitous headcanons. 
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> The Immortal Moon


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